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I'll steal beneath yon haunted Tower,
And wait the day-star's coming-

The Bat shall flee at sight of me,
The ivied wall shall be my hall,

My Priest, the Night-Fly humming.

Yon Spectre's iron shroud I'll wear
With frozen spots bespangled:

The night-shade too, besprent with dew,
With many a flower of healing power,
Shall cool my bare feet, mangled.

Is it the storm that Jasper feels?

Ah no! 'tis passion blighted!

The Owlet's shriek makes white my cheek, The dark Toads stray across my way,

And sorely am I frighted.

Amid the broom my bed I'll make,
Dry fern shall be my pillow;

And Mary dear! wert thou but here,
Blest should I be, sweet Maid, with thee,

To weave a crown of willow.

The church-yard path is wet with dew→
Hence, Screech-Owls! for I fear ye!
Fall gentle showers, revive the flowers
That feebly wave on Mary's grave--
But whisper, she will hear ye.

Beneath the yew-tree's shadow long
I'll hide me and be wary :

But I shall weep when others sleep!
Is it the Dove that calls its love?
No! 'tis the voice of Mary!

How merrily the Lark is heard!
The ruddy dawn advancing:
Jasper is gay his wedding day
The envious sun shall see begun,
With music and with dancing.

How sullen moans the midnight main; How wide the dim scene stretches! The moony light, all silvery white, Across the wave illumes the grave

Of Heaven-deserted wretches.

The dead lights gleam, the signal sounds!
Poor Bark! the storm will beat thee!
What Spectre stands upon the sands?
"Tis Mary dear! Oh! do not fear,
Thy Jasper flies to meet thee!

Now to the silent river's side
Poor Jasper rush'd unwary :

With frantic haste the green bank paced,
Plunged in the wave,-no friend to save,
And sinking,-call'd on MARY!

The BRITISH STRIPLING's WAR-SONG.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high
Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;
O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,

And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought.

Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd,

And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear native land.

In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,
The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath;
And my fancy still wandered by day and by night,
Amid battle and tumult, mid conquest and death.

My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,
How oft it awakes me from visions of glory;
When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France,
And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory

As late thro' the city with banners all streaming,
To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,
With helmet and scymetars naked and gleaming,
On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly;

I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,

For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm; And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,
Since you told of the deeds that our Countrymen wrought;
O lend me the Sabre that hung by thy thigh,

And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought!

ESTEESI.

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